


I Know I Won't be Leaving Here (With You)

by problematiquefave



Series: Wolfstar-A-Week (2017) [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, First War with Voldemort, Get Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-07 09:13:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12229920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/problematiquefave/pseuds/problematiquefave
Summary: Remus knows, when it starts, that it can’t possibly end well. Of course, he’s right.





	I Know I Won't be Leaving Here (With You)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration came from the song Take Me Out by Franz Ferdinand. 
> 
> Though Jily isn't tagged (because it's not a major element), it's also present; the major character death warning also applies to James and Lily.

“Go fuck yourself, Potter!”

The door slams shut, like the bang of a gun, the walls reverberating with the violence of the action. Remus, in the kitchen, keeps a straight face as he stands over a bubbling pot of noodles. He hears the pounding footsteps and muttered curses coming closer and closer to the kitchen. He ignores them.

“Buggering git!”

Remus picks up his wood spoon, stirring the noodles. Though he isn’t much better at it, he prefers cooking to potions. In potions, you had to stir a set number of times in a set direction with just the right pressure. Cooking was much more freeform. The spoon clacks against the counter as he sets it down; his eyes not moving from the boiling water.

Arms snake their way around his abdomen but, still, his attention isn’t disturbed. Which was to say something, perhaps, considering how boring watching a pot is and how hair is suddenly tickling his nose.

“Thinking, Moony?” a soft voice asks – a barely-there strain to the words. “Coming up with the next great novel?” There was now a pressure his shoulder, a chin digging into the sinews of his muscles. Not that he had many muscles, being as skinny as a string-bean, but Sirius’ chin was pointy.

“No,” Remus murmurs. “I was thinking about potions, and then about string-beans.”

“Something green? You horrify me.” A beat of silence passes, companionable, with only the slightest tenseness. “As long as it’s not mushy peas. Cannot stand those – I’d rather vomit than eat them. The texture…” A shuddering sigh, exaggerated as natural for Sirius.

Remus hums, picking up the spoon again. “Indeed. And that’s why we’re having pasta for the third night in a row.” Also because it was cheap; he could pick up a couple bags of pasta for a quid or two, and some sauce for a little more. Why splurge when this did the job? Comfort and taste, one might argue, but he was a starving artist and those ranked low on his list of financial priorities.

(A starving werewolf, also, but he preferred the artist title.)

“You make good pasta.”

Remus huffs. “You only say that because I let you live and eat here for free whenever you’re feuding with James. My pasta’s soggy and the sauce tastes like metal.”

A beat of silence passes, and not because of the honest-to-God review of his cooking. The J-word had been said. What a horrible mistake.

“James is a git.”

“You said that already.” The pot was looking rather frothy, Remus thinks. Time to serve. “Off.”

The weight retreats. Remus turns off the stove and brings the pot over to the sink, dumping the noodles into a strainer, watching as the hot water pours down the drain. He hears shuffling behind him and a small clunk. His eye twitches but he goes about his dinner preparations anyways, biting his tongue about the boots he knows are scuffing his cabinets.

“It’s true. He’s a git – a massive, buggering git.”

“Some might say that about you.”

A scoff. “I don’t ditch my friends for two weeks without notice. I give them a heads-up when I plan to run off and elope with my girl.”

“You don’t have a girl. You don’t _want_ a girl. You want a motorcycle.”

“Not the point, Remus, and you know it.”

Remus’ lips curl with a small grin at that annoyed sounding voice. And people thought he was boring – oh how wrong they were. He could be as infuriating as any of the rest of his friends. Perhaps it wasn’t the best to demonstrate that when already discussing another’s friends annoyingness. Oh well.

Remus turns around, looking at Sirius for the first time since the other had entered the kitchen. The first time in their conversation. Sirius had hopped up on the counter and now sits there, his hands in his lap, his head resting against the cabinets. Despite his leather jacket, ripped jeans, and combat boots, there is a vulnerability in Sirius’ eyes. He is hurt. Remus sighs, and motions for Sirius to continue.

Sirius shakes his head, sighing heavily. “I didn’t… It’s soon, isn’t it? Doesn’t feel that long since she was threatening to hex his balls off and now, all of a sudden, they’re married. James is married. Eloped, even. Couldn’t even send a bloody invitation – I’d have rented some dress robes and given a speech. He’s my brother, I should’ve been there.”

Remus wants to say that he should’ve been there too but he doesn’t. It’s always been the James and Sirius show – Peter and him were, and are, the extras.

“They should’ve at least invited mum and dad.” Sirius had been referring to Mr. and Mrs. Potter as his parents since that fateful day in the summer before their sixth year. No one ever questioned it. “Merlin, I can’t imagine how ol’ Fleamont’s feeling knowing his son didn’t even bother to invite him to the wedding.”

“I’m sure Euphemia will give them hell.”

Sirius nodded. “Yeah… Mum’s like a raging bull when she wants to be.” _Better than a shrieking harpy_ , Remus silently adds, _better than Walburga_. He doesn’t need to be James to know that much. “James’ll rue the day he crossed her. She’ll make him grovel.” Slowly, a devious grin spreads across his lips. “I bet she’ll make him clean the shed. With no charms, of course. The shed’s got some of Fleamont’s old experiments in it and those suckers can be volatile; he’d blow up half the yard if he tried to just wave his wand at things. And that’s a lot of things.”

Remus thinks it sounds like a rather childish punishment, something McGonagall would give them for one of their pranks back at school, but if it gives Sirius comfort then he won’t complain.

Sirius is still smirking to himself, obviously thinking of James on his knees, perhaps in a pink apron with yellow rubber gloves. Indeed, Remus thinks, it would be an amusing sight. Hopefully Mr. Potter would take a picture. And hopefully, afterwards, they could all go back to normal. The James and Sirius show could go on.

“Dinner?” Remus asks.

“Yes please.”

*

Or not.

Sirius had said, that morning – before Remus went out the door to work – that he was going home, going to make amends now that James had inevitably suffered whatever punishment Mrs. Potter had ordered. Remus bid his temporary roommate goodbye, agreeing to ‘get a pint sometime soon’.

He was going to need that pint. _Now_.

Remus had returned, tired and worn out, hands sticky with something he hoped was food, to find Lily sitting on his couch. James and Sirius were bickering over a towering stack of boxes. He blinks, wondering absently for a moment if he’d gone to the wrong flat. Of course, that wasn’t the case – the couch was too battered, the ceiling too stained, and the floor too scuffed. This was his place, as unimpressive as ever.

He lets his bag fall to the ground with a small thump, drawing Lily’s attention. She smiles, warm and kind. In her hands is a chipped but steaming cup of tea. He could go for some of that right now. Frankly, it sounds preferable to dealing with _this_ , whatever this is. But it isn’t what he asks about.

“What’s going on?”

It isn’t Lily who answers – of course not – but, instead, Sirius. He turns from James to beam at Remus, dropping a box with a clunk as he steps over and  throws his arms around Remus. Once more, Remus blinks.

“I’m moving in!”

Oh.

“Oh.”

Remus sees Lily stifle a chuckle. Here he’d thought she looked _kind_.

“Yeah,” Sirius says, seemingly oblivious to Remus’ not-so-thrilled confusion. “The lovebirds here are gonna need the extra room. Honestly, could you not have picked a better time? Or told me beforehand? Like if you want sprog, have at it, but give your roommate a heads up that he’s going to need look for a new place, yeah?”

It’s the third time in a short stretch that Remus blinks. Sprog.

“Are you two…?

“They are!” Sirius happily chirps, slinging an arm around Remus’ shoulders. “Evidently someone forgot their safe-sex education. Condoms, Moony, unless you want to have to elope in the dead of night like the two of them. Tacky.”

“Like you’d know tacky if it hit you in the face,” James mutters, shaking his head. He looks at Remus and shrugs. “It wasn’t planned but we’re happy about it. A family, y’know… In these days, I think that’s a good thing.”

 _In these days_.

No.

“Yeah.”

No.

Remus doesn’t like talking – doesn’t like _thinking_ – about the war. He’d made a rule, though he’d never said it aloud, to not do either of those things here. His flat is a safe space from the war. It’s Switzerland. The war was everywhere you turned on the streets, in every haggard expression. Order meetings weighed him like bricks, every dead name like a punch to the gut. Turning on the radio was never much better.

He isn’t going to rain on the parade though.

He is such a doormat.

Remus notices the awkward silence that had settled. They’re waiting on him, waiting for him to process. Considerate, he supposes, but it’s also a bit pointless. What does his opinion matter? This was _their_ kid, _their_ family, the new chapter in _their_ life. He’s just the friend they keep around out of the pity – the werewolf and starving artist who’d probably be in the gutter if it weren’t for them.

“S’pose celebrations are in order then, yeah?”

James beams.

*

Celebrating, in this case, means going out for dinner and pints. Lily can’t partake in the latter part of the festivities but she tucks away a hearty serving and laughs at the boy’s antics, rolling her eyes as their coherency slowly slips away. By the end of the night, James and Sirius are well and truly sloshed, and Remus can feel a warmth with only one reasonable explanation. All in all, it’s a good evening, even if his arm started feeling numb while dragging Sirius home.

Home.

The home they now _shared_.

He could’ve said no, could’ve told Sirius to go out and get his own flat, to stop taking advantage of his hospitality. Perhaps he should have. Perhaps, but he hadn’t. He wouldn’t. Though he would never be as close to Sirius as James was, he was still a friend, one that Sirius needed. Remus’ biggest weakness had always been the desire to be needed.

Sirius’ arm is slung over his shoulders as he pushes open his – _their_ – front door with his foot. The stumble into the flat, Remus dumping Sirius on the couch and steadying himself as Sirius groans. He pulls his wand out of his pocket and points it at a lamp. He tosses his wand onto the coffee table as a dim light illuminates the room. It’s warm, he thinks.

“I think… I dunno what I think,” Sirius says, before bursting into a fit of giggles.

Remus huffs; “I think you’re going to regret this in the morning.”

“Hangover cure.”

“Don’t have any.”

Sirius glares incredulously at Remus through his bangs. Remus shrugs. He has some pills, of course, the muggle variety bought from Tesco, but it was nothing like a good wizarding hangover cure.

Groaning, Sirius throws his arm over his eyes. Remus thinks he’s being quite dramatic but then that’s usually how Sirius is and what with the alcohol… Maybe they could start reciting Shakespeare.

“Budge up,” Remus mutters. Sirius lifts his legs only to drop them back in Remus’ lap once he sits down. A part of Remus tells him to get back up and get some ibuprofen, or at least some tea, but it’s not the part that’s winning, and it’s forgotten by the time Sirius begins to speak.

“I’m happy for them,” he murmurs, arm still over his eyes. “Really happy. I think they’ll be great parents.”

They would be. James had learned from the best and Lily would make sure the sprog wasn’t _too_ spoiled. They’d be perfect parents and, in a matter of no time, they’d have a little herd, one to rival the Weasley’s surely. Maybe he’d get to be Uncle Moony; he wouldn’t blame them, though, if they didn’t want him there.

“Then why don’t you sound happy?”

Sirius pulls the arm away from his face, shooting Remus a wry grin.

“‘M not gonna have that.”

Remus’ brow furrows. “I think you will.”

Sirius shakes his head, his dark hair glinting dully in the dim light. “‘M not. Not gonna have kids, not gonna have a family, not gonna have a wife.”

“You will.”

A frustrated sigh escapes Sirius. “No, I won’t. I’m not interested in— I don’t like—” Sirius licks his lips. “I’m gay. I don’t like birds, not interested in the slightest, only blokes. And blokes just don’t have the parts.”

“Oh.”

There’s a silence, as dull as the lights. Remus tries to think back to their days in Hogwarts, back to the dates Sirius had. They’d always been stilted but he’d just chocked that up to a lack of experience and example, not a lack of passion.

“That’s… nice.”

Sirius cocks a brow. “You gonna get weird on me, Moony?”

Remus shakes his head. “No. Just… Never realized.”

“Never said it out loud before.”

There’s a silence again and Remus can’t decide if it’s more or less awkward. What can he say? The wizarding world is more accepting than the muggle one – as long as you aren’t a pureblood expected to carry on the family name – but it’s still not prevalent. Remus can’t name anyone he knows that’s gay. Not that it’s a bad thing; Remus thinks, in fact, that people should be allowed to love who they want, regardless. But that was all he’d ever thought. As a werewolf, it’s not like anyone could ever love him.

“Maybe you’ll marry a single da’ then. Get a cute little bugger of a stepson.”

Sirius’ laugh is like velvet. “Maybe.”

Maybe… Nothing is ever certain in these times. Sirius smiles though, and so does Remus, and he thinks that that’s enough deep revelations for one night.

*

They carry on.

Remus likes to think that one of his greatest virtues is adaptability. When the Marauders had revealed to him that they knew his secret, he adapted. When they’d showed him their animagus transformations and started keep him company on the moons, he adapted. When James and Lily eloped, revealed they were expecting, Sirius moved in, and revealed that he was gay… Remus adapted.

Life with Sirius is easy. Sirius is tidy and has taken it upon himself to do the grocery shopping. He can’t cook to save his life but Remus has at least a working knowledge of the kitchen and a drive to do better with more expensive ingredients – wouldn’t want to put them to waste. Sometimes he hogs the bathroom and other times he listens to the radio too loud but, Remus thinks, that’s endurable.

James and Lily becoming James _and_ Lily, officially, has also not been a bad thing. Lily’s pregnancy is progressing nicely, already showing on her small frame. It’s a poorly kept secret that Sirius will be the godfather. Peter shows up then and now, though his ill-defined work often keeps him away. He usually has some new toy for the baby whenever he does come around. Remus is being included and, for that, he’s beyond grateful.

All in all, life is what Remus would describe as ‘very nice.’

Or it is, until the war starts to creep in.

Of course, they hadn’t somehow passed the war by until this point. They were young Order members, given the occasional mission, rarely anything too taxing. They went to meetings and did what Dumbledore told them to but, for the most part, they could live their lives separate from the mayhem. Until they couldn’t.

The Death Eaters, they learn one night, have started targeting families. A mixed family that worked for the ministry, a branch of the Blishwick family, and the parents of Fabian and Gideon Prewett. They all had at least one vocal dissenter amongst them and, for that it seemed, they’d all been served a death sentence. The elderly and the children, too.

It’s an uneasy Order meeting. Those without children are horrified but those with… It’s a threat. Remus’ gaze drifts over to James and Lily who both look at each other with unease.

The following meeting is no better, not for Remus at least. The werewolves have officially joined with Voldemort, as has someone who’s name makes him far more fearful than Voldemort’s ever could.

The next one reveals a prophecy. One that maybe-possibly-probably affects James, Lily, and their not-yet-born baby.

They return home that evening and Sirius kicks one of the counters. Remus doesn’t tell him off, despite the urge; he falls onto the couch, sinking into the battered cushions as Sirius raids the cabinets for liquor. He needs it too, he thinks, as Sirius trots into the living room with two bottles of vodka and two shot glasses.

“You have a shit taste in drinks, Moony,” Sirius says, handing one of the glasses over. Remus shrugs as he accepts. “No firewhiskey. What sort of heathen are you?” he continues, plopping onto the couch and kicking off his boots.

 _A furry one_ , Remus thinks.

“I’m buying the alcohol next time. If I have to face my own mortality ever again, I’m not doing it with a drink made out of potatoes,” he whinges as he pours their drinks. They toast and toss them back – Sirius makes a sour face but Remus is used to the horrid taste. He kind of likes it.

They sit there, mostly silent, tossing back shot after shot. Eventually, Remus gets up and grabs them some food from the kitchen, knowing they’re nowhere near done with the evening. Bread and vodka – was this London or Moscow?

They turn on the radio at one point, listen as a voice rattles off the names of the missing. Remus recognizes a couple names from school and a couple more from old jobs. There seem to be an endless amount of names that he doesn’t know however, dating back to 1970. _Never to be seen again_.

Remus really doesn’t want to be one of those names. Ever.

Sirius seems to agree, without Remus even voicing it. “I don’t want to die.”

“I don’t think anyone wants to die.”

“I just… I don’t. I don’t want to die. I don’t want James and Lily to die, I don’t want Peter to die, I don’t want—” He looks over at Remus. Sirius’ eyes are misty, like he’s about to cry, but there’s also a clench to his jaw, steadfast determination and anger. Injustice. “I don’t want you to die. Ever. Remus… You deserve so much more.”

 _I don’t_ , he thinks, but he’s always thought that and everyone knows. It’s not like his self-loathing is a secret.

Remus pushes himself up. The room blurs for a moment but rights itself quickly. He puts a hand on Sirius’ shoulder and looks into those clear eyes, the ones the colour of silver. Sirius is still, tense beneath Remus’ hand. It doesn’t quite make sense to the werewolf but he also doesn’t question it and his inebriated mind doesn’t make him withdraw. The wonders of vodka.

“I don’t want you to die either.”

Sirius stares at him. He doesn’t relax, doesn’t even speak. Remus tilts his head to side, wondering what he’s thinking, and about to ask when _it_ happens.

When Sirius kisses Remus.

It seems to last forever, and then they’re back to shots.

*

It’s hard to get out of bed the next morning. It could be the raging hangover – the one that feels like there’s something inside his skull that wants _out_ – or that Sirius is somewhere on the other side of that door and Remus _remembers_.

He remembers the kiss.

Was it bad? Probably. They were drunk and he was shocked.

Does he have a problem with it? Remus’ current answer would be: not sure.

Remus eventually pulls himself out of bed, mostly because his muscles are sore, stiff, and protesting his mattress. He doesn’t venture out of his room though, going, instead, to the easel in the corner. There’s a half-finished painting sitting on it which he resumes.

He sits there for a while, lost in his art; he’s not numb to the throbbing in his head or the queasiness in his belly but he does a good job of ignoring those things. Colours wash the canvas, lots of pinks, reds, and oranges. In his head is a soft, glowing dawn – he thinks he does a good job of getting that onto the canvas. How long that takes, Remus can’t say. The sun still pours in through his east-facing window so it can’t be _too_ late.

He can’t lose himself in the paints forever though. The knock on his door says as much.

Remus looks up from his canvas as Sirius pushes open the door. The hinges protest, creaking like his joints do after the full moon. Sirius looks sheepish, unsure – it’s not an expression he sees that often and Remus can say, with plenty of certainty, that it’s not one he likes.

Not that he’s ever thought about things like that before.

“I made some tea,” Sirius begins, though Remus can tell from the way their eyes can’t quite meet, and the way Sirius’ hands shake, that it’s not the thing he wants to say. “Wanted to see if you’re up, y’know, after last night…”

“Yeah.”

The silence is oppressively awkward. It sits on his chest like a lead balloon, pressing on his rubs, crushing his lungs and stifling his breaths. It makes his tongue feel heavy in his mouth, makes his throat feel too tight.

Last night they kissed.

Last night they were drunk and facing mortality and they _kissed_.

Sirius sighs, a breath so full of frustration that it bursts. Nervous tip-toeing isn’t Sirius’ style – which he doesn’t blame his friend for, it’s something difficult to do in steel-toed boots. But Remus… Remus is the type to sit on his feelings, sit on his thoughts, desires, and notions, until they flicker out like a candle’s flame in an air-tight jar. They’re opposites like that, and they wouldn’t work at all.

Yet they kissed.

“Remus, last night… I don’t— Do you even—”

“I remember.”

A miracle really, with all the alcohol they’d consumed. Remus has always had a strong constitution in that regards – or maybe the vodka’s improved his tolerance more that he’s thought, wouldn’t be too surprising with the amount he drinks – but they’d still had a lot the night before.

But he remembers the kiss. The press of lips together, warm and tentative, hungry and slightly sloppy. It was drunken but it wasn’t meaningless. Even Remus, who’d never been kissed before, could say as much.

“Then did you—I mean, did you—” Any other time, Remus would feel satisfaction from managing to tongue-tie Sirius. _Any other time_. “God, I don’t know if you’re even like men. Are you gay? Bi? Anything besides hetero?”

Remus looks at his palette, his teeth worrying his bottom lip. He’s never thought about it before, never _allowed_ himself to think about that before. Any dirty dreams he’d had, he’d shoved straight out the window of their dorm room in Gryffindor tower. Nothing survived that fall. By the end of their schooling, by the time they’d left and Remus had gotten this shitty flat, he’d long since resigned himself to a sexless, loveless life. He’s never thought about whether he prefers men or women because it has never mattered. He could never have that.

He still couldn’t have that, he tells himself, but it’s harder to justify when Sirius is standing right there, waiting with growing impatience for an answer.

“I’ve never thought about it,” he admits. He doesn’t look up. He doesn’t want to see whatever pitying expression Sirius has for him, for the werewolf with self-esteem issues as deep and wide as the Mariana Trench, maybe even larger. Remus knows he’s pathetic – he doesn’t need to be told, thank you very much.

He doesn’t look up to the padding of feet, of Sirius coming closer. At least he isn’t wearing those dread boots that scuff up his floor more than it already is. There’s a hand, gentle and feather-light, that rests between his shoulder blades. Remus finally looks up, meeting those silver-grey eyes that must be magic. That’s the only reasonable excuse for their colour.

“Did you at least like it?”

“I was drunk.”

“Yeah, but…” Sirius huffs. “You’re not drunk now.”

Sirius leans in and they kiss again.

It’s better the second time.

*

Dating Sirius – they’re dating, Remus thinks, or something like that – is surprisingly soft. There’s not a whole lot of ‘dating’ involved and, frankly, it’s not that different from when they were good friends but it _is_ different. Sirius’ hands-on nature is somehow different. When they’re on the couch, reading or watching the muggle telly, Sirius’ head in his lap feels lighter. There’s the kissing too, and that’s quite nice.

They’re not out to Lily, James, or Peter. Maybe they’re suspicious, maybe they’re not – though the closeness they share feels different, _is_ different, it might not look that way to an outsider. Whatever the case, they’ve not said anything, and Sirius has made no mention of saying anything to them.

They’re content like this.

Remus likes content.

Remus likes this.

He doesn’t need any more than this; he doesn’t even need a guarantee of forever. When Sirius talks about the soon-to-be-born Potter, Remus is okay with that. He’s okay with the knowledge that, one day, Sirius will want that and will go find a single father to have that with since Remus could never be that. He’s okay with the knowledge that Sirius will, eventually, want more than Remus could possibly – fathomably – provide, and that he’ll go out and find it when that time comes. This is good enough for him _now_.

Flour fights in the kitchen? That’s good enough for him.

Cuddling together while Remus reads aloud? That’s good enough for him.

Languid kissing on the couch? That’s good enough for him.

A hand creeping up his shirt? That’s good enough for him.

It’s not perfect because Remus refuses to use that word – if it were perfect then he’d miss it, and Remus won’t allow himself that. He also said he wouldn’t allow himself to love and, well, here he is. Remus would argue that that’s beside the point.

Besides – this was good enough for him.

*

Good can’t last though, not in this day and age.

The horizon grows darker, the news evermore grim. Death, death, death. The church bells never stop ringing. The muggles can feel it too – they see an increased rate of violence that they can’t explain but they also can’t be told there’s a whole other world right beneath their noses, one that’s fighting a war with magic rather than guns.

Remus gets laid off and he can’t find another job. There’s no specific law that says you can’t hire werewolves, but there’s no law that say you have to either. He can focus on his art, at least. Or so he says, to assuage the pain. Sirius promises to take care of them with the money Alphard left him. Those condolences feel insignificant though, when people glare at him out of the corner of their eyes, looking like they stepped in dog dung every time he passes by. He can’t even escape it at Order meetings.

The Order isn’t well. Members are dropping like flies; every meeting brings with it fewer and fewer people – he tries not to dwell on the _why_ , whether it was death or fear that took them away. Neither answer can be faulted. It doesn’t matter as much anymore that they’re young with little life experience – Remus, James, Sirius, and Peter are all hands waiting to be used and the Order needs every set of those.

In July, when little Neville is born, shortly followed by Harry, there’s not much relief to be found. The prophecy hangs on, sucking out the happiness of those moments like a dementor. There’s more fear and tentativeness in those rooms that strictly necessary for first-time parents.

Sirius and Remus return home from the hospital, worn and tired, wary to their bones. They collapse together into the sofa, taking comfort in each other’s arms.

Maybe, Remus thinks bittersweetly, that he won’t lose Sirius to time’s inevitable need for progression and innovation. Maybe he’ll lose him to the war.

He glances into those silver eyes, swimming with thoughts Remus can’t possibly be privy to, and leans in. They’ve kissed countless times but every one is different. This one feels desperately scared, unprepared for finality. Remus can hear the echo Sirius saying that he doesn’t want to die, but it feels nothing like the kiss that followed that.

Sirius’ fingers creep beneath the hem of his shirt; Remus’ muscles flutter at the contact. They kiss, they’re breathless. Sirius’ lips are soft, Remus’ lips are chapped.

More clothing comes off. They’ve never had sex before, never even been naked with each other before, but there’s a need in every moment of contact that says that’s about to change. Remus offers no protest and Sirius listens to none. Somewhere along the way, they move to Sirius’ bedroom. His sheets are soft and Remus’ back doesn’t protest the mattress like it would his own. Which is good, with the way Remus is pushed into it.

When it’s over, there’s sweat on their brows and peace in their bones. Sirius plucks up a strand of Remus’ hair and twirls it around his finger, before pushing it behind his ear. Remus looks into his eyes. He doesn’t lose himself in them, he thinks, because he’s already too far lost.

He also thinks, rather solemnly, that this can’t possibly end well.

*

He’s right. He isn’t always right but, unfortunately, this is one of those times where he is.

He hates that.

They’ve gone out to brunch, the five them. Does little Harry count as six? He looks rather like a potato, Remus thinks, or a thing of dough. He’s got Lily’s green eyes and James’ warm complexion, along with a tuft of wild black hair. Five-and-a-half, he decides.

James is regaling them of some tale from St. Mungo’s and Lily is rolling her eyes like she’s heard this story a thousand times. She probably has. Peter’s laughing and asking questions, and Harry’s bouncing on Sirius’ lap. It’s all very nice, except for the furtive looks that Sirius keeps shooting him. He doesn’t understand them, doesn’t get what’s wrong, but also knows that now is not the time to ask. He focuses on his friends and on his plate of over easy eggs, and not on Sirius.

When they get home, it’s a different story.

“What?”

Sirius cocks an eyebrow. “What?”

“You were staring at me the entire time we were out. Do I have a pimple? Am I growing a second head? Hm?”

“Testy aren’t you, Moony?”

“I’m serious. I—”

“I’m Sirius.”

Remus glares. God… Does Sirius have to be so infuriating sometimes? It’s a valid question. Remus is used to uncomfortable staring and wary eyes but not from _Sirius_.

Sirius sighs, shaking his head. “It was nothing, really. You’re worrying about nothing.”

 _It’s not nothing, you git_ , he thinks but doesn’t say. He might convey it with his eyes though because Sirius’ lips set into a tight, straight line as he steps closer.

“You know I love you, right?”

Remus blinks. _I love you_ … That’s a big thing to say in a relationship, right? Especially one you’ve never openly called a relationship. At least that’s what he’s heard – he’s more sure about the fact that _that_ wasn’t why Sirius had been staring.

“Yeah.”

“I’d do anything for you,” he continues. “Do, say – _anything_. And you can come to me with anything, I wouldn’t care. I love you and that’s unconditional so just… Know that. Please.”

Remus isn’t sure what Sirius is rambling about but it feels like a lot more than an awkward love confession. Something closer to the truth his doesn’t understand. He nods though.

“I love you too.”

*

Remus thinks about their conversation over the next few days – in fact, he doesn’t _stop_ thinking about. It plagues him. When he picks up his paintbrush, he thinks of those silver eyes and how they were so cold as they lingered on him. When he sits at his typewriter, the only words that come to mind are the ones Sirius had said afterwards. He didn’t understand what they’d meant. Did Sirius think he was hiding something? Or that Remus was about to leave him? But Remus wouldn’t do that… No, he’s waiting for the day that Sirius does that, and he’s still pretty sure that that’s not what he was on about.

It’s confusing, makes his head feel addled and full of cotton balls, but what’s worse is how things _change_. There’s no anger or fear, just a tentativeness that’s never been there before, even when Remus was a fumbling virgin that had never been in a relationship before. Things are quieter now, when they make dinner. They’re hesitant now, when they crawl into the bed they share. There’s a chasm forming between them and Remus doesn’t _understand_.

That hardly matters, though, when Sirius comes home covered in blood.

He limps through the door, half-propped up by James. James looks battered too, just not as wounded as Sirius. James’ eyes meet Remus’ and they don’t even need to exchange words before Remus gets Sirius’ other side and leads them to the couch.

They lay Sirius down gently – though he still grunts, dear God – and straighten up. Remus looks over at James and watches as he runs his hand through his messy hair. Remus knows that look, knows the panic that must be building in his friend’s chest.

“Do you want some tea?”

James shakes his head, trying to give Remus a reassuring smile and failing miserably. “No,” he begins, voice quivering. “We were jumped by some Death Eaters. Got out of there the best we could but…” He trails off, glancing at Sirius. “I need to get home. Gotta see if Lily and Harry are alright. Take care of him, yeah?”

Remus nods. James bids them goodbye and is out the door just as quickly. Remus doesn’t begrudge him this – Lily and Harry are far more important, and Remus can take care of Sirius by himself.

He gets a washcloth from the sink and a couple potions from the cabinets, ones usually reserved for the full but needed now. He places the washcloth over Sirius’ head and goes about stripping off his blood-soaked clothing. He trails his wand along the deepest cuts, muttering incantations until each is sealed, looking like year-old scars. Those’ll be gone by morning. He dabs a potion on the shallower ones and then tilts Sirius’ head forward so he can drink a different one. Remus grimaces in sympathy, knowing how bad it must taste.

He’s about to gather the items and take them back to the kitchen when Sirius’ fingers catch on his sleeve. Remus’ gaze meets those stormy eyes that he loves so much – they’re pleading and Remus doesn’t resist.

“They threatened Harry,” Sirius whispers, looking away. Remus’ elbows dig into the couch and his chin rests the back of his clasped hands. “They threatened Harry because of that damned prophecy. They think he’s the chosen one.”

Remus doesn’t say that the evidence would suggest that. That’s not helpful.

“They’ll need to go into hiding then,” he suggests. That’s helpful, or so he thinks, until Sirius looks at him again, expression inscrutable. He hates how that look makes him feel, likes he’s said or done something wrong. He hasn’t, he knows that, so he doesn’t get it.

“Yeah… S’pose so. James ‘ll talk to Dumbledore about it in the morning.”

Remus hums, brushing a lock of Sirius’ hair away from his sticky forehead. “You should get some rest.”

*

James and Lily go into hiding, somewhere unplottable and untied to any of the Potter estates. Not many people are privy to its location for fear of a spy amongst their ranks – Sirius, Peter, Dumbledore, and he are the only ones that know. Evidently, even that’s too many. A few days after Harry’s first birthday celebration, they’re attacked.

The Potters manage to make it out alright – Lily sends a letter a few days later that says as much. She also says, until the time that Dumbledore can find them a safer location, none of them are to know where they are.

James and Lily keep in regular contact, nonetheless. Despite their grim circumstances, each letter is like a little piece of sunshine. They’re happy, filled with well-wishes and stories of Harry’s accomplishments. A couple even come with a little scribble courtesy of Harry. While each letter they send is a high point, the rest of the world is in turmoil.

The Death Eater’s numbers swell with every passing day, matched only in ferocity by the terror they spread. Rumour has it that they’ve begun to expand overseas.

They see Peter occasionally but, even then, that’s not much. They seem him at Marlene McKinnon’s funeral with red-rimmed eyes and a swollen nose; they see him a few weeks later for pints and he doesn’t look much better. None of them do – each month seems to age them a year.

It’s during this time that Remus _finally_ catches on. He finally understands the meaning behind the looks Sirius keeps giving him. It’s a realization that hollows out his insides, leaving him cold and bitter.

Sirius suspects him.

 _Of course_.

Remus can’t blame him, not really. He’s the destitute werewolf with no steady job and no real prospects. He’s destined to be alone and penniless, and he has enough self-realization to know such. That makes him dangerous, he supposes. If he knows he’s going to lose, who’s to say he won’t try to game the system? Certainly not the man he spent seven years sharing a dorm with, two years sharing a flat with, and a year sharing a bed with.

That’s not sarcastic, not at all.

Remus spends most of his time holed up in his room, paint staining his fingers. Sirius doesn’t disturb him – in fact, they don’t see much of each other anymore. There are no more evenings spent trying to make something equally edible and tasty in the kitchen, or nights spend curled up on the couch watching the muggle telly. They don’t even touch the vodka.

*

Remus’ fingers curl around the handle of his brush, his eyes concentrating so hard on the canvas that he starts to see double. He can Sirius banging around the flat and it’s _irritating_. He wants to shout at Sirius to hold still for once but, at the same time, he doesn’t want to say a word to Sirius.

What a pair they make.

Are they even still a pair?

His eyes flutter shut as he tries to settle his emotions and focus his thoughts. Breathe in, breathe out. Perhaps it would’ve worked if it weren’t for the loud rapping at his door.

“Come in.”

Sirius does. Remus suspects that, even without the invitation, he would have. Sirius has never much cared for personal space – Remus believes that to be a direct reaction to the cold and distant way in which he’d been raised.

Now that he’s in the room, Remus can see that he’s holding a letter in one hand. Before Remus can ask what it’s about, Sirius speaks.

“James and Lily sent word. It’s…” He looks down at the letter. “It was addressed to you but I’ve read it already. Sorry.”

There’s a lot of things that Remus could say – something about Sirius reading mail that isn’t his, something about how he doesn’t sound that apologetic, or something about James and Lily. He says none of those things. Instead, he tilts his head to the side.

“What does it say then?”

Sirius glances at the letter. It’s brief but Remus notices it – notices the reluctance in his eyes, like he doesn’t even want to share what James and Lily have willingly sent to him. Of course he wouldn’t. You’re not supposed to share anything with your enemy, are you? And in Sirius’ eyes, in those suspicious, silver eyes, Remus is the enemy.

“They’ve decided to undergo the Fidelius charm. You probably won’t see them again until the war ends.”

He notices the word choice. He can’t possibly miss it. _You_. Not we, not I, not Peter. _You_.

He notices, and he’s tired.

“But you will?”

Sirius looks sheepish. The paper crinkles as his grasp around it tightens and he glances at the floor. A part of Remus wants to ask why he looks so awkward but what does it matter anymore? Sirius is at war with his own loyalty, but Remus knows he won’t win out. James and Lily have always been more important and that’s a fact he resigned himself to from the very beginning.

“It’s fine, you know,” Remus continues. He looks away from Sirius, his eyes focusing on his canvas, the flecks of paint, the broad strokes of colour. “You don’t trust me. They don’t trust me. That’s fine – I know that already.”

A sound comes from Sirius’ direction but it’s not a word. Has he left Sirius speechless? How hollowly amusing.

“I’m not the traitor but I know you won’t believe me. You can’t.” The words aren’t bitter, no. They’re dry. They taste like ash and dust on his tongue. “You got the notion in your head somewhere along the way, which I don’t blame you for. I’m the logical choice. One of us is the traitor, obviously, and I’m the one who’s in the most desperate situation. My future is bleak. Unlike you and Peter, I don’t have a happy ending in store. If I want one, I’d have to make it. It’s what got all the rest of the werewolves on his side. Why am I any different?”

“Remus…”

Remus shakes his head. He takes his brush and swipes up some blue; with a feather light touch, he adds it to the painting.

“Remus, _please_.”

Remus doesn’t look up though he hears Sirius approach. He hears the letter as it falls to the floor with a smack – he still doesn’t look up. It’s only when Sirius grabs his chin and forces him to turn his head, to meet his gaze, that he looks.

“Remus.”

“I’m a werewolf, not a dog. You don’t need to call my name three times.”

He can hear the frustration in Sirius’ sigh and takes just a small bit of pleasure from that. _It’s your own fault_ , he thinks. _You’re the one that’s kept me on edge in my own home. You’re the one that said you loved me but couldn’t even trust me._

“Re— Moony, enough.”

Remus cocks a brow. He’d tilt his head to the side but that might contradict the earlier dog statement – also, Sirius’ grip is still tight around his chin and he can’t really move his head.

“Can we… Can we just pretend? For one night?”

“Pretend what?”

Sirius swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “That we’re still in love.”

There’s a lot that Remus could say to that too. He could ask why they’d want to do that, when Sirius thinks he’s the traitor and Remus is so tired. He could admit that it wouldn’t be pretending, not for him, despite those facts. He could tell him no, save himself the heartbreak, and end it all here – sever the ties and be done.

Instead, he nods, jerking against the tight grip on his chin, and lets Sirius kiss him.

For one night, they can pretend they’re still in love. For one night, they can pretend the trust and cherish one another. For one night, they can ignore the bitterness and resentment, and the war raging on outside their front door. _For one night_.

At dawn, Sirius leaves. Their time is up. Remus receives a missive from Dumbledore in the afternoon that sends him north – Order business, he thinks with a bittersweet ache. Maybe, when he gets back, it’ll be to the empty flat he had before all of this.

He’s wrong on that one, at least, though he’d rather have been right. Sirius’ things are still in his flat and there’s an old copy of the Prophet at his door. Bold, black letters jump out at him, proclaiming the capture of a traitor and murderer, and below it is Sirius’ face. The monochrome picture doesn’t do justice to those enchanting silver eyes, Remus thinks.

 _Of course_ , he also thinks.

There are a lot more things that Remus could think or feel; of them, he chooses to feel validated. It’s easier – easier to tell himself that he was right, that he knew this couldn’t end well, then face the crushing truth.

James is dead.

Lily is dead.

Peter is dead.

Sirius is a traitor.

It’s 1981 and he’s all alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. If you've enjoyed this, a comment would be greatly appreciated.


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